Whispers of slavery days, and “jim crow” ways, can be heard throughout the south. It runs deep in the heart of those conservatives who view the old ways as the only true way. Yet, they call it a “new south.” But the only thing that’s new about it is the way people convey their hatred, and contempt.

From slavery’s humble beginnings, Americans have dug deep in overcoming jim crow’s tyranny, and civil inequalities, in trying to fashion a way for black and white to coexist, without the spillage of blood.

It isn’t easy.

Good people, on both sides, have died that we might see each other for who we are, instead of the color of our skin. But attitudes from a foregone era still whisper its displeasure to the ignorant, spreading myths and lies about a reality that doesn’t exist.

We find audience members—of that long ago echo—in places like; law enforcement, judicial services, and other positions of power, bent on holding the black man down. Ku Klux Klansmen were given a badge and a gun, and the legal right to kill a black man…at his discretion. With every advancement, jim crow’s system of oppression was there with a counter move.

The south may have lost the civil war, but they were determined to keep the black man in, what they considered, “his place,” through whatever tactics were necessary. With that mentality permeating the south, the plight of the black man was a gruesome struggle. Yet, they endured the intimidation tactics, the dehumanization tactics, and every other tactic the white man could throw at them. In the end, they stood proud, and determined as ever to prove their worth to a people, many of whom didn’t even acknowledge their humanity.

During the pre-civil rights era, there was an unwritten rule: black men could not look upon, or touch, white women in any way that could be construed as sexual. Violation of that rule could be punishable by death. And, it didn’t have to be proven that the violation occurred, the accusation was sufficient. Even if the white woman in some way instigated the contact, the violator was guilty. The rule didn’t apply to her. Therefore, she cannot be held accountable for his breakage of the rule.

Such are the things the black man had to contend with.

While the white man—many of whom were not against the black man—accepted that blacks weren’t going anywhere…and they weren’t going to be treated “just any way” the white man desired, the black man accepted the white man’s belief that they were a superior race. They just didn’t understand what, or whom, they were superior to. Knowing that there wasn’t a white man alive that could stand against him, the black man knew they weren’t superior to him. But he didn’t need to prove that point, everyday. He would wait until confronted to establish his dominance.

Over time, routines were established. Advances were made.

The post civil war era was a bloody time. The rebel south wasn’t ready to accept the northern yankee’s version of what life should be like in their back yard, even though they lost the war. Nor were they ready to treat its one time slaves as equals. They were determined to maintain a separation of the races, and keep the African in its rightful place—at the bottom of their food chain. To accomplish this, they came up with some lies designed to justify their belief in a superior race.

The most powerful of these myths is that of the sexual deformity of the black man. Although its original intent was to so frighten white women—with the notion of super endowed beings—that they would never dare entertain thoughts of mating with them, for fear of forever damaging their bodies.

It was a myth.

Everyone knew it didn’t apply to every black man out there. Just like, everyone knows there are well-endowed white men, and Asian men, and some in every other nationality that exists. But once started, the myth persisted. And, over time, white women listened to its call.

The myth spread.

As the myth grew, white women’s curiosity grew to match the myth. Until, curiosity became fantasy. And fantasy became a burning itch that, for some, would not be denied.

The problem with myths, and lies, is that people sometimes take an interest in them for the very reason their originators intended it. And, eventually, white women began fantasizing about black men, as sexual objects, rather than the monsters white men tried to portray them as being. Not long after that, fantasy became reality when white women overcame their fears and gave in to their passions.

Having their deceptions backfire on them, white men painted white women who would mate with black men as something less than a woman. Giving so called decent white women another hurdle to cross before they could join their predecessors. Many of them chose to suppress their desires, rather than anger a white society that was unforgiving, in this regard. Others chose to enjoy themselves under cover of darkness…part of their excitement being the danger of getting caught. But, when that danger became too real, too many of them did like their counterparts…suppressing their desires, in order to avoid being ostracized by white society. And, then, there was Lori Pettis.

Lori Pettis was a white, middle class, female, who was thrown into an environment where she was face-to-face with Adonis-like black men for the first time in her life. As hard as she tried, the fight to suppress her desires was too much for her. But, after giving in to them, she found that she couldn’t deal with the thought of that secret being found out.

Illicit Desires​

(The Lori Pettis Story)​

The residential student population on Mississippi Valley State University campus accounted for two-thirds of the five thousand residents of Itta Bena, Mississippi, a small farming community outside Greenwood. The heart of the Delta, Itta Bena’s flat, open landscape allowed for harsh winds, blowing rain, and thick dust storms that could pop up at any given moment. During other times, its lush greenery was captivating. There were fields and fields of various crops—soybeans, cotton, corn, etc. No matter the country road you traveled, you found crops growing and people working them. During the spring, when the sun heats up, many of the male sharecroppers often worked without shirts¼their chiseled, ebony bodies glistening with the sweat of their labor, under the harsh rays of a noontime sun.

Located seven miles west of Greenwood, Mississippi—Ku Klux Klan headquarters—primary control of Itta Bena’s governing functions came through the county seat. However, this small, predominantly black, township, in Leflore County, was tired of being ruled by people who thought them incapable of ruling themselves. They wanted to reclaim their city’s civic responsibilities.

Lori Pettis was a field representative for an engineering consulting firm out of Yazoo City, Mississippi, assigned to Itta Bena’s city planning office. At twenty-four years old, she was on the fast-track to success. A Syracuse University standout, she had moved to Mississippi to spite her father. He had wanted her to join the family business—an engineering consulting firm specializing in computer hardware design. However, she wanted to be on her own, as far away from the family business as she could get.

Once weekly, she made the drive from Itta Bena to Yazoo City, for staff meetings—to get updates, to pass information, etc. Each time, after her initial trek, she would take the shortcut that ran through the fields east of Itta Bena, across the Tallahatchie River Bridge, and on to Mississippi’s Highway 49. With each trip, she saw sharecroppers working the fields. She never paid much attention to them¼it was normal for them to be there. Once, she saw only one worker. She thought it strange for a lone worker to be working such a large field but she left it at that. The worker was black, bare chest, and drenched in sweat. His muscles rippled with each movement. She took notice of his chiseled body but attributed no real significance to him, as a person. He was black, therefore, not worthy of her—a white, middle-upper class, former New Yorker—thoughts.

Lori began this latest trip wishing she had stayed in bed. It was not the best time of the month for her to be traveling. She was irritable. Her attention span was curtailed, considerably, by her raging hormones. They say a woman’s sexual appetite is heightened, dramatically, at the onset of her menstrual cycle. Maybe that’s because she knows she has to do without sexual gratification for a week, or so. Or, maybe God has a sense of humor, and felt that it’s “just desert” for having disobeyed Him in the garden. Either way, that day was no exception. Every man she saw, she wanted to attack¼to take what she needed. Although she resisted the desire, she wondered what people would think of her if she allowed her natural instinct to take over.

As she drove along that dusty back road, from Itta Bena to Mississippi highway 49, she struggled with her focus. The sweat running down her brow wasn’t entirely from the heat. Her body was in overdrive. She tried to push it away¼wishing she could wipe away her thoughts as easily as she did the sweat from her brow. She never realized her needs could get so bad¼that she could be so driven by natural instinct¼so totally enveloped by it. She needed relief.

She knew she couldn’t make it through the day, in her current state. So, when she reached a seemingly deserted, wooded section of road, she pulled under one of the big oak trees lining the roadway, switched off the ignition of her car, and waited for the dust to settle—to make sure no one was around. After looking in every direction, and seeing no one, she folded her sundress up above her waist—she was going to staff meetings and didn’t want her dress to be too badly wrinkled—removed her panties, and set about the business of relieving her tension.

She was so absorbed in the tremors of her first orgasm that she barely heard the sound of footsteps approaching. It’s comical how fast a person can go from the precipice of the greatest sensation in life, to complete alertness. Quickly, she adjusted her clothing, checking the rear view mirror as she did so.

Walking toward her was a black man, whom she assumed was the same one she had seen the week before. Again, his shirt was off, sweat rolling over his muscular features. Wondering if he would be able to smell her scent, and guess what she was doing, she met him at the rear of the car.

Before today, the idea of sexual contact with a black man had repulsed her. The mere thought ushered memories of lengthy lectures, from her father, on the virtues of the temple that is a woman’s body¼and how she should never defile it. When she had opened the door, she only wanted to deny him knowledge of her “predicament.” But, as the magnitude of that “predicament” intensified, as she began to fully appreciate the Adonis-like creature that stood before her. All reference to race, and logic, melted in the glowing heat of the inferno raging within her. At that moment, all she wanted was a man¼a strong, virile man. One who could quench the thirst, the overwhelming need that had taken hold of her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Benjamin began. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she sighed, trying unsuccessfully to steady her legs. Bracing herself on the trunk of the car, she continued. “Yes, everything is fine. I just stopped to appreciate the beautiful scenery.” Her body was still trembling as she looked out across the fields, hoping to avoid eye contact.

He looked around, trying to see what she was seeing. But all he could see was field after field of hard work, and there was nothing beautiful about it. When his gaze returned to her, she was fanning her face with her hand. Realizing that he was looking her way, she spoke up.

“I didn’t realize it was so hot out today.” She absentmindedly pulled the top of her dress away from her body, allowing a breeze to flow down between her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her nipples became hard, little pebbles pushing at the fabric. A move that didn’t escape Benjamin’s notice. Reassessing the situation, it dawned on him that he may have interrupted her pleasure.

She pushed herself up onto the trunk of the car. Although she had experienced one brief orgasm, before she was so rudely interrupted, it was so minor that all she had accomplished was to stoke the smoldering fires that had her so worked up in the first place.

“Well, if everything’s okay, I’ll leave you to your appreciation of nature, and get back to my work,” he said, gesturing towards the fields.

“No!” The word slipped out before she realized what she was saying. “Don’t go.” Her hand snaked out to touch his arm, tentatively, at first, before becoming more brazen. As he turned to face her, that same hand began to caress his pectorals¼gently wiping the sweat from his broad chest, as she caressed his quickly hardening nipples. She looked deep into his soft, brown eyes as her thighs began to fall apart.

Laying back on the trunk of the car, she placed her feet on the bumper to keep from sliding off. Automatically, the hem of her dress began a slow decent¼until her sex was visible to his prying eyes. Her inner self was screaming for self-control but all she wanted was for that itch to stop itching. Now, totally exposed, she allowed her thighs to fall completely open. Oozing wetness escaped enflamed petals now parted at her center. The moisture formed a rivulet that ran downward, pooling on the trunk, just beneath her buttocks.

As if in a trance, he watched as her thighs opened before him. The hem of her dress just seemed to slither up her thighs and bunch around her waist. When he realized she wasn’t wearing underpants, he panicked. He knew men who had been hanged for seeing, by accident, less of a white woman than he was seeing on purpose. He closed his eyes and turned to leave but she grasped his hand to stop him.

“Are you sure you want to leave,” she asked¼looking at the enormous bulge trying to rip his pants open. He looked around, wondering what to do when, suddenly, he felt the unmistakable, yielding flesh of a plump breast under his fingers. When his head snapped around, he found the top of her dress around her waist and his hand resting on the most perfect thing he’d seen in his life. She was using his hand as a massage tool, on her left breast.

He froze.

He knew he should remove the hand from its resting place but the flesh felt so good.

He’d been with women before but never out in the open, like this, and never a white woman. He could see everything. Every strand of hair. Every engorged bump and fold of her sex. Every bit of moisture seeping from her. He was enthralled. He didn’t know if he should smile or run. His heart was beating so fast he could hardly breathe.

Searching his eyes for a sign that he was okay with it, she gave herself over to her desires. Gone was the shame of the shy young woman who thought touching herself was a dirty deed¼to be replaced by a lady who stopped under shade trees to brazenly relieve herself, under nature’s watchful eye. Gone were the inhibitions of the woman who had trouble making love with the lights on. Gone were the reservations of a conservative upbringing that said she should never ever copulate with anyone outside her own race. Having succumbed to the overpowering lust of the moment, she raised her legs and waited for him to take her.

Shocked, he again tried to leave¼worried about the trouble this could cause him, and his family, if anyone happened by.

Again, she grabbed his hand. Tide was too high, and need too strong, to let him leave without, first, taking care of her needs. She pulled him to her and placed both his hands on her breasts, as she nibbled on his earlobe. Moments later, she moved his hands down between her thighs. That first touch set off a chain reaction of orgasmic bliss, the likes of which she had never known. When she came down, she realized that he had stopped resisting.

His caress was as gentle as a morning breeze. His butterfly kisses to her neck…as soft as a goose-down comforter. But, for her, it wasn’t about the gentleness, or finesse, or any of the niceties of love-making between two people in love. This was sex¼the down deep and dirty of it. She wasn’t worried about becoming pregnant. She wasn’t thinking about the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases. She just wanted that itch to stop itching. She wanted it to stop.

Again, she raised her knees to her chest, completely surrendering herself to him. The sheer strength of his thrusts drove her over the edge, as waves of contentment washed over her. He was relentless in his attack and she willingly allowed him his seemingly endless assault. She had never been handled the way he handled her. Nor had she ever known anyone that exerted himself the way he did. She was breathless just laying there.

When he was done, he redressed and walked away. Words weren’t necessary¼nor was she in the mood for them. As she lay basking in the afterglow of their coupling, her needs momentarily satiated, she was glad he understood that. Never had she felt so alive, so fulfilled, or so thoroughly confused. As good as it felt, she couldn’t believe she had done something so outrageous¼so totally against her way of thinking.

She continued her trip to Yazoo City, replaying everything that had happened along the way.

“What was I thinking?”

The more she thought about her episode beside the road, the more guilt, and embarrassment, she felt. It was beginning to overwhelmed her. She knew something had to be done to cleanse herself of the stench of it, but she didn’t know what.

It wasn’t until a stranger in the elevator, noticing her anxiety as they rode up to her office, asked if she was okay, that she thought of a solution.

“Yes!” She quickly replied. Then, setting the stage, she looked at the floor of the elevator and said, “No, I’m not,” she whispered. “I think I’ve been raped.” The tears came without thinking about it. However, instead of tears of anger over something that didn’t happen, they were tears of self-loathing. Nonetheless, once they came, she thought good of them and continued the act.

“You think you’ve been raped!” The gentleman inquired…immediately regretting inviting himself into her business. “What do you mean you think you’ve been raped?” He was almost disgusted at what “I think” might imply. “Either you have or you haven’t. Have you?”

“Yes, I have.” Guilt immediately replaced the confusion she had felt earlier. To herself, she thought, “I know I haven’t been raped but I couldn’t very well tell him that I had just finished having sex with a black man, could I?” Her left and right brains were having a tug-of-war over what was right to do.

“Have you called the police?” the stranger asked, as they stepped off the elevator.

“No, I haven’t,” she said. The battle within was causing her head to swirl. “Oh, God¼the police. What have I done?” In her haste to protect her reputation, she hadn’t considered the consequences of accusing someone of rape. She hadn’t thought of someone being arrested¼a trial¼or the effects it would have on anyone else. She tried to think of some way out of there¼away from this good-intentioned stranger, with whom she kept digging a deeper hole each time she opened her mouth. “Why am I lying?” She asked herself but the only answer she could come up with was that she wanted to make sure that the black adonis she had so richly enjoyed didn’t spread it among his friends that she had practically begged him to be with her¼and that she had liked it.

“Do you want to call them¼or, should I?”

“Would you, please?” She knew that the only way she could stop the course she had chosen was by telling the truth. But she wasn’t ready to do that.

When the police arrived, Lori told them about stopping on the road and being approached by a black man. She told them about the sex and his disappearing. However, she forgot to mention that she had invited him to have his way with her. She feigned confusion when asked for a chronology of the events, making herself seem more believable. However, when asked for a description of the perpetrator, she gave a detailed description of her supposed assailant. Afterward, she was taken to the hospital for examination. In the meantime, an all points bulletin was put out for a black male, early twenties, believed to be working the fields along a dirt road that connected Itta Bena to U.S. highway 49.

An innocent person is guilty only of being innocent, and will always act accordingly.

When Benjamin saw the police cruiser racing down Tallahatchie River Road, he didn’t think of hiding, or running away. He did what every other innocent person would have done¼he went to investigate. He wanted to satisfy his curiosity. When he was surrounded by gun-waving police officers, he still didn’t think much of it—mistaken identity, maybe, but nothing more. A crime had been committed and he was a black man. Still, he hadn’t done anything wrong so there was no need to worry. When they told him to lie face down on the ground, he became confused. When they threw him to the ground, he feared for his life. “People don’t die over mistakes,” he thought. When they started beating him, his fear turned to anger¼his anger to rage.

“What did I do,” he yelled, but they just kept beating him.

Unconscious. Lacerations covering fifty percent of his upper body. He was transported to the Leflore county hospital, in Greenwood, where he was examined for signs of sexual activity. The residue found on him was a positive match for the DNA samples given by Lori Pettis. When he regained consciousness, he found himself handcuffed to a hospital bed with two cops staring down at him. When he pulled at the handcuffs, the cops reached for their batons.

thanks for bumping.... now I'm going to part 2 .... loved the intro, and the issue here is something that has my blood pressure appropriately raised - (me being from the south, having 'escaped' with my parents from de facto jim crow in the early 60s)...well done!